A Woman of Valor
by Ryalin
Summary: My submission for Christine's Fab5 Challenge


Author: Ryalin Acknowledgements: My submission for Christine's Fab5 FF challenge. I want to thank my ever-faithful beta, Colorado, for her continued patience with my creative grammar and spelling. Thank yous as well to the Fab5 for the inspiration to write this story.  
  
A Woman of Valor  
  
The brilliant summer sun reflected on the rippling waters of the small pond almost as if a handful of diamonds had been absently cast on its quiet surface. Lady Marguerite Roxton stared at the pink and white lilies floating amongst the shimmers, her thoughts, at least briefly, returning to Paris. She and her husband, Lord John Roxton, had just returned from a much- needed visit to the City of Lights, spending quite a few lazy afternoons walking the well-traveled hallways of The Louvre. Marguerite had been drawn to the rows of Impressionist art almost from the beginning, seeking the peace that seemed to course through her amidst the gentle splashes of blues and greens on canvas. If her husband noticed the prolonged time spent amongst the works of Monet and Renoir, he remained silent, the concerns never voiced. Ultimately, what made Marguerite happy made him happy. If he had to spend day after day staring at the same dozen paintings, so be it. All he wanted was to see the sparkle return to his beloved's beautiful silver eyes.  
  
Those same silver eyes continued to stare inattentively at the pond's floating blooms, the animated conversation she had been engaged in moments before coming to a prolonged, pregnant pause, her mind swept into a whirlwind of memories. A vague tickle on her right ankle had her wandering thoughts rushing back to the moment at hand, the surprise of finding herself back in the here and now akin to a slap in the face.  
  
"I'm so very sorry, Veronica. I have no idea why I let my mind wander off like that, unless, of course, senility has finally set it," she said with a soft chuckle.  
  
Marguerite leaned over to scratch the small patch of exposed skin between the hem of her tan-colored slacks and the smooth beige leather of her garden shoes, searching for the insect that had tried to make a meal of her ankle. Once she was sure that the offender had been dispatched to whatever hereafter God granted the various creepy crawlies living in her lawn, she curled her legs back beneath her, comfortable sitting in the springy softness of the sun-drenched grass. Though the weather was a tad warmer than the typical August day in Britain, the gentle breeze, carrying with it the heady scent of tea roses, cooled the temperature to near perfection. She briefly looked down at her pant-covered legs and allowed herself a brief, gloating smile. Despite the fact that she was a grandmother four times over, her legs looked good. Damned good. After 35 years of marriage, her husband still stared at her with hunger in his eyes, and nothing stroked a woman's ego more than the knowledge that a rugged, sexy man found her desirable. What did it matter that the rugged, sexy man in question was her husband and a grandfather, no less?  
  
"You know, Veronica," Marguerite said as she again resumed her conversation with her dearest friend, "when I packed for that expedition to the plateau, I told myself that I was packing slacks for the sake of comfort and practicality alone. The truth is, I think part of me loved the bit of scandal, the sheer impropriety of wearing pants in public. Not that it compared to the miniscule, leather ensembles you were running around in, but it was a nice little rebellion on my part. I'm almost sad that pants have become so acceptable amongst the ladies. I have to admit to missing the whole 'unseemliness' of it all."  
  
After yet another moment's pause, she continued. "Speaking of unseemliness, you would not believe what Ronnie said to me the other day." At the thought of her eldest granddaughter, a smile had begun to creep across her features, though not quite reaching her eyes. "Your namesake is too much like you and me for her own good. How a quiet girl like Elizabeth could have given birth to a spitfire like Ronnie still bewilders me. Then again, how I could have given birth to a quiet girl like Elizabeth stunned just about everybody, especially you and Ned. Seems as though the little hellion got hold of one of my journals from the first plateau expedition. Let me reiterate. She got a hold of THE journal from that expedition. The one I never even let you read."  
  
The thought of her 16-year-old granddaughter pouring through an explicit written account of grandma's first sexual encounter with grandpa brought laughter bubbling up through Marguerite's body like a fountain. She threw herself back on the grass and laughed like she hadn't laughed in a very long time; laughed until she had tears streaming down her face.  
  
"Do you know she had the audacity to ask me, and I'm quoting here, if I was really 'having it off with grandpa back on the plateau?'" Marguerite asked with equal parts of mortification and pride, using her sleeve to brush the tears from her cheeks. "Before you start laughing, she then proceeded to ask me if Uncle Ned and Aunt Veronica were-what was the word she used?-oh yes, bonking as well. Good Lord, Veronica. I thought I was going to die. I felt like I was stuck in a trashy, erotic novel. If she had started asking me about manroots and lovesticks, I'm fairly certain I would have disowned her on the spot. When I reminded her that this was not a proper discussion for a young lady, she was quick to remind me, in this order, that she was almost an adult, it was the 1960s not the 1920s, and that she wasn't the unmarried, young lady who had been engaging in 'ye olde rumpy pumpy' trapped in a cave in the middle of the South American jungle. As my brain was coming to terms with the fact that my liberated granddaughter found the antics of my less-then-virtuous youth admirable, she simply snatched up the journal, turned on her heel and headed to her room. If you had only been there, Veronica, watching the former Ms. Marguerite Krux, mistress of the sharp tongue, being verbally bested by a 16-year-old girl."  
  
Marguerite continued to lie on the grass, her thoughts once again turning melancholy after the brief respite, no words from Veronica to break the somber mood. It was there, lying in the sunshine, that Lord John Roxton found his wife, her face still streaked with dried tears, the sun teasing a rainbow of browns and reds from the long, curly hair that no gray had the strength of will to invade. His heart still hurt for the pain he knew she was enduring, a pain he knew cut sharper and deeper then his own. At first he thought she was asleep and was surprised when she looked up at his approaching footsteps.  
  
"Hi," he said tentatively.  
  
"Hi yourself," she said with a smile, looking up at the man who had possessed her heart since the miraculous day in a collapsed cave so many years before. She often reminded herself that her heart had been his long before that, but that day in the cave had been the first time she had been able to voice the words out loud. As terrifying as the near-death experience had been, she was secretly thankful that the cave-in had occurred. Nothing like staring death in the face to put life into perspective, she thought to herself.  
  
Marguerite watched as her husband settled his long, lean frame on the grass next to her. His limp, a relic from one too many encounters with their reptilian neighbors on the plateau, had become a bit more pronounced in the last few years, his dark brown hair slightly more peppered with gray. Yet, when Marguerite looked into the clear, green eyes, she still saw the rugged hunter, the man she swore she'd love until the end of time.  
  
Roxton put his arms around his wife and held her close, softly kissing the line of her neck. He felt her body stiffen when she saw the handwritten letter he was holding in his hand.  
  
"Yes, it's from Ned," Roxton said softly, answering the question he saw in Marguerite's eyes. He watched quietly as she appeared to fidget with a blade of grass she had idly plucked from the lawn. When her eyes again stared into his, a cascade of emotions ran through them. That's my girl, the thoughts echoed in his head. You're strong. You can work your way through this. Let me help you find your way.  
  
"Who made the trip?" Marguerite asked with mild curiosity, the casual interest in her voice not lost on her hopeful husband. "It's not Charles, is it? I'll kill that boy myself if he left Jessie behind this close to her due date."  
  
"I'll be sure to tell Martin how close his brother-in-law came to death by my beautiful wife's hand," Roxton said with his typical sardonic wit and mocking grin. "I had Chambers make up the blue room for him. He's to stay for about a week, mainly to purchase supplies, before he returns to the plateau. He wants to be back before the baby is born."  
  
There's nothing like family to cut through the pain of grief, Marguerite thought to herself, excited at the prospect of spending the next week visiting with Ned and Veronica's son-in-law. Martin was married to their eldest daughter, Margaret, while Charles was married to their youngest, Jessie, who was currently expecting her third child. Right in between the two girls, forever complaining about the tragic lot of the middle child, was their son, George, a blonde, blue-eyed charmer with a permanent, mischievous grin and a flair for the dramatic.  
  
Ned had known full well that marrying the jungle girl of his dreams would entail certain sacrifices. Veronica's place as protector of the plateau had severely limited their options, as Veronica was unable to leave the place of her birth for any length of time.  
  
Marguerite smiled as she remembered some of the young couple's arguments, early in their blossoming relationship. It seemed as though the issue was always whether or not Veronica would leave. Little did they know back then that the issue would become whether or not Ned would stay. As far as I'm concerned, Veronica should have known the answer to the question the first time Ned chose staying with her over flying away in the balloon; not that those attempts to fly away ever seemed to work, Marguerite thought to herself with a soft laugh.  
  
Ned had left the plateau briefly in order to settle affairs back home and say a real goodbye to his family. Assured that Ned was alive and well and extremely happy, and understanding the need to protect Veronica's homeland from an outside world that, once again, seemed headed for war, his mother and father were able to give Ned their tearful blessings. Ned returned to Veronica's open arms shortly thereafter and never looked back. Short trips from the plateau usually entailed exposing their children to the world that existed beyond their boundaries. Ned and Veronica had agreed that it would be wrong to deny Margaret, George, and Jessie the chance to see and experience the world outside, especially when it came to education. Each in his turn, the children had been put into the care of their "Uncle John and Aunt Marguerite" so that they could attend college in England. All three children had been excellently schooled by their parents, ahead of their peers in many respects. Talk of private home schooling and a quiet, Roxton donation for another scholarship or building fund insured that no questions were asked. If the Roxton "nieces" and "nephew" looked at the world with a little more wide-eyed wonder then most, no one seemed to notice. It was a teacher, a doctor, and an engineer that returned to the plateau, wiser for their experiences but eager to return "home."  
  
"Penny for your thoughts," came Roxton's deep, melodious voice, breaking through the protective wall Marguerite had created with happy memories.  
  
"Didn't you once tell me that thoughts were overpriced?" Marguerite said as she laid her head back on her husband's chest, seeking solace in his embrace.  
  
Roxton kissed the soft brown of her hair. "Only mine, my dearest. Yours have always been priceless."  
  
"You, as always, are a smooth talking devil," Marguerite said as she turned to press her lips gently to his, the faint musings of a smile finally reaching the gray eyes. "I was thinking about family," she said pensively. "I was thinking of how life can seem bleak and somber, absent of hope, of laughter of life. Just when you think that shades of black and white are all that lie in store for you, suddenly life around you changes. My view of the world was drab and dreary, but then there was suddenly color and meaning and purpose. You changed my life, John. All of you did. Thanks to you and the others, I have a legacy I can be proud of, and I feel that I helped, at least in some small way, to contribute to the happiness of those dearest to me."  
  
"That, you did, my love," Roxton said with a smile. "And if you need reassurances, you have only to read Ned's letter."  
  
Marguerite's face grew pensive once more. "I can't, John. Not yet. Just let me know that he's doing OK, that he's somehow getting through this."  
  
Roxton took his wife's face in his hands, using his thumbs to brush the tears from her cheeks. "He says he is doing well, Marguerite. He's taking one day at a time, and the children and grandchildren have been invaluable to him. Margaret is trained and ready to assume her birthright. It makes him proud to see so much of Veronica in his firstborn."  
  
Marguerite watched as John stood slowly, offering up his hand to help her on her feet. "Margaret has a lot of responsibility to carry on those shoulders of hers," she said with pride in her voice. If she is half the woman her mother was, she will be remarkable indeed."  
  
Roxton stood and stared at his wife, noticing the first gentle tendrils of peace and acceptance chipping away at the grief. She turned in his arms and looked thoughtfully at the small, stone marker by which she had been sitting. A tribute, erected at her husband's request, in honor of the woman who had been their friend; a woman they both owed their lives to many times over.  
  
"I do so thank you for this, John," she whispered into the gentle breeze.  
  
Marguerite stood, enfolded in her husband's arms, looking once more at the engraved words on stone, not realizing that she read the words aloud.  
  
Veronica Layton Malone Beloved wife, mother, grandmother and dearest friend "A woman of valor, who can find? Far beyond pearls is her value Give her the fruit of her hands, and she will be praised at the gates by her very own deeds"  
  
"She will be praised, and she will be missed," Marguerite whispered warmly as she took her husband's hand in hers and walked slowly and purposefully towards home and family.  
  
Author's note: The quote on the marker comes from Proverbs 31. Called "A Woman of Valor", it is a prayer honoring the role of the wife and mother, and is traditionally recited by husbands to their wives every Sabbath eve. J.F. 


End file.
